Zephir: A Demons Sequel
by LaLaFilly
Summary: Set in 2050, a young Demon struggles with his misfortunes and the nightmares of his past. - A sequel to Jess & Ash's novel "Demons"
1. Reoccurrences

Zephir sidestepped the deep puddle of water that stained the misused street. His black hoodie was pulled down over his head, shielding him from most of the rain that poured down. His gloves, though buried in his pockets, were soaked through, and he desperately wished that the water would wash away the black ink carved there.

His mood darkened further when he saw ripples in the puddle that shadowed him. He exhaled, annoyed, and quickened his pace.

"You can't outrun me," Byzane said, beaming as she walked in-step with him. She was wearing a mini-skirt over fishnet tights, and a singlet - all in black. It was a wonder that she didn't freeze to death.

He would never be so lucky.

"Unfortunately," he muttered, glaring at the dilapidated warehouse ahead. He glanced at his watch, eyes skimming over the numbers on its black face. "Right on time."

"Nine o'clock, everytime," she said, flashing him another perfect smile. "And it will be everytime until you come back."

"Not happening, and you know it."

He turned, heading onto a populated street. Drug addicts cowered into the alley's shadows as the two teenagers passed. This was the lower part of the city, where criminals thrived and lost couples in sedans drove by in fear.

"Why not?" she demanded angrily. "What's stopping you?"

"Nothing. Except my conscience."

She laughed, receiving a few uneasy glances from the alley inhabitants. "Your conscience? Why are you feeling guilty about the stuff you did two years ago? You should be proud. You were the best."

"I know I was," he snapped, turning onto a brighter, more colourful street.

"So why don't you come back?"

"Because some people - unlike you, Byzane - actually _have_ a conscience. Some people don't like earning a living by killing people. I'm not exactly happy with where I am now, but I like it more than I did my old life."

"You loved your work," she contradicted as he threw open the door to his building, stepping into the dimly lit foyer and pulling off his hoodie. "You were passionate about it. What stopped you? What changed you?"

"Go away, Byzane," he said tiredly, climbing the cheaply carpeted stairs. She was waiting for him at the top, outside his apartment door. He rolled his eyes. Speed Demon, of course. Byzane possessed the ability to move at unnatural speeds. He, however, did not.

She snatched his keys away, dancing out his reach. Her purple-streaked black hair danced around her as she laughed at his pitiful efforts to catch her.

"Do not make me blast you," he warned quietly.

"Do it," she dared, narrowing her eyes and coming to a halt, directly in his line of fire. "Come on, Zephir, do it."

He glared. They both knew that he wouldn't. He could, but he wouldn't.

Anger reared up in him, and he spun around, kicking the door. The lock tore from the wall, and the door swung inwards, groaning and splintered slightly near the hinges. He stalked inside, dragging his hoodie off and throwing it onto the couch.

"I expect you to pay for that," he snarled.

She chuckled. "Me? I didn't break the door."

He spun around to face her. "No, but you're the one with all the money won over from sleeping with daddy's rich business partners, aren't you?"

She slammed him into the wall, pinning him there by his throat. She was close enough that he could see her transite coloured mezane eyes. A transite was a form of eye drop that made the irises alternate between two colours. If she looked left, her eyes would turn purple, if she looked right, her eyes would go blue. If she was looking straight ahead - like she was now - they would be a mixture of both. "Don't you dare try to accuse me of things I haven't done."

"Yet." He flashed her a malicious smile, and she slapped him, appearing at the door.

His cheek blooming with a stinging pain, he pushed off the wall, his own transite coloured eyes - a mixture of gold and orange - focusing on her as she stood, framed in the doorway, badass as ever.

"You goddamn idiot," she snarled, and disappeared, her footsteps almost indistinguishable on the stairs.

He sighed, brushing a hand against his cheek, and walked across the room to close the door. He'd have to get it fixed tomorrow. Like he could actually find the money to pay for it.

He laughed darkly, trudging off to his bedroom. It was small, with peeling wallpaper and a creaking door. His window gave him a beautiful view of the next building over's brick wall. At least the rent was cheap, and he had no spying neighbours.

He kicked his black boots off, laying back on his bed with his gloved hands behind his head.

There had once been a time when he had been the most highly paid assassin in America, probably in the world. You could charge as much as you wanted to when you never missed your target, never got caught, and could have the job done within twelve hours of making the deal.

Zephir tugged his fingerless glove off, inspecting his palm. A symbol was inked on his left palm; a black warning to anyone who dared to cross paths with him. It was the symbol for Bloodlink - the ruling mafia clan in America. He had been a faithful member since he was ten years old, wiping out any opposition for the leader, Edel. He had been highly respected and feared among the clan, before the incident.

After that, he had disappeared from the criminal community altogether. He was now an eighteen-year-old cashier at McDonalds, barely managing to get through university and using whatever was left in his bank account to pay off his rent.

Life sucked, but at least he was good and following the righteous path.

Yeah, sure.

He hated the tattoo, hated what it represented. He had been owned, a mere asset to a clan eager to kill anyone who stood in its path on the way to domination. It represented power, strength, but also murder, violence and blood. Motiveless assasinations. Innocent killings.

He had been a master of his craft. He was a Thought Demon - somewhat of a psychic able to control the thoughts and minds of others. He could communicate through thought, having entire one-sided conversations with another person. He could reproduce memories that person held, force them to relive their most terrifying nightmare.

But what had marked him as an assasin was his ability to kill without leaving evidence. No fingerprints, no hairs, no physical wounds or cuts to identify a weapon with. He could kill from fifty metres away, with the only thing to connect him to the killings being his presence. But it was pretty hard to accuse someone of murder just because their face appeared at a few murder scenes.

He had lied about his methods of killing, both to make his form of killing only his, and to stop people getting inside his head, knowing how he did it. He had told them that he scared his victims to death. That he made them relive their worst moments, suffer agonising events again and again and again, or used their fears and phobias against them. Not that he couldn't do it - he was perfectly capable of scaring a person to death. He just had a much quicker and more efficent method.

It was called an omega-wave.

People usually functioned on beta-waves while working, and delta-waves while sleeping. Beta-waves had the third fastest EEG bands, with delta-waves having the slowest.

Thought Demons used omega-waves in a technique called 'blasting'. They tapped into the person's mind and took control of their EEG waves. The omega-wave had the fastest rate. It forced the brain into overdrive, made it speed up, work harder and faster. The brain guzzled up energy and demanded oxygen to keep it working at the omega-wave rate. That forced the lungs to breathe faster, and the heart to pump faster. In a effort to sustain itself, the brain would cut off bloodflow from the limbs and redirect it to the head. It continued to speed up the heartrate until the person suffered a heart attack from overuse. The sudden lack of blood would starve the brain of oxygen, and it's cells would very quickly decompose.

A good Thought Demon could kill a person within a five minutes. A highly-skilled Thought Demon could kill in under thirty seconds.

Zephir's record had been twenty-two.

He slipped his glove back on, watching his ID Pin glitter in the dim light spilling in across the lounge room from the hallway. The silver strip of metal embedded in his left wrist lit up as he tilted his arm back and forwards.

Everyone in the world had an ID Pin. Even if you were a criminal, you couldn't get anywhere without one. It was a strip of metal no bigger than your smallest finger two thirds of the way up the inside of your arm. It was called an ID Pin due to the small metal rod that was forced between the ulna and radius, with a pinhead on the outside of your wrist. The pin stopped the strip of metal from being removed. It was implanted at 18 years of age, and - unless you lost your limb - remained with you until you died.

Each ID Pin had a code to it, sort of like a barcode for products, and when that code was read, the computer would draw information from the main database. The ID Pin identified what files were yours. It told the reader who you were, what you looked like, your criminal record, your medical files, and all history relating to purchases, attendances and events. It was scanned everytime you entered or left a public building, such as a shopping mall, a resturant or a courtroom. If you got onto any form of transport, be it bus, train, plane or taxi, the database would record it. If you wanted to buy an item, you scanned your ID Pin. Credit cards had rapidly become outdated after the introduction of the ID Pin. Some private homes - usually owned by wealthy businessmen - had ID Pin scanners, which meant that if a crime was committed in that house, authorities could review all records of anyone entering that house.

It stopped criminals from escaping. A criminal on the run could buy food, accomodation or transport without sparking a red light on the database. Fortunately for him, Zephir couldn't be traced to the crime. Since he could kill from outside homes, and even off the property itself, the scanners wouldn't show that he had been there. No a watertight alibi, but close enough.

Zephir rubbed his palms into his eyes, suddenly exhausted. The financial stresses and long hours became irrelevant annoyances as he drifted off into an undisturbed sleep.


	2. The Unwelcome Guest

Zephir tripped, landing on his hands and knees in the puddle he had been trying to avoid. He exhaled angrily, regretting ever having met the cousin that stalked him every night.

Byzane stopped beside him, and he looked up to glare at her. She was sucking boredly on a red lollipop, and Zephir could see that two more had been stuffed into the pocket of her black jumper.

Speed Demons were well-known to be sugar junkies. They moved around at high speeds, burning up tonnes of energy every second. They pretty much lived of sugary treats, but still managed to keep the slimest of figures due to their overexercising.

Byzane plucked the lollipop out of her mouth. "That was for calling me a slut."

Zephir pushed himself to his feet, staring down at his half-drowned black jeans. "I didn't call you a slut, I merely pointed out that you were a prostitute."

She kicked him behind the knee, forcing him back to the ground.

"You little bitch," he snarled, jumping up. She flashed him a smile, before disappearing.

He glanced around with a frown, but only a deserted street stared back at him.

Uneasy, he made his way back to his apartment, and froze in the doorway. His lounge room had been _destroyed_. Books had been ripped and hurled across the room. The insides of his old couch had been strewn across the room. The contents of his fruit bowl was mashed into the peeling wallpaper, and a section of his wall had been kicked in. There was the distinct imprint of the undersole of a boot in the centre of his bedroom door. His coffee table had been overturned and two of the legs snapped off.

Furious, he kicked the doorframe. "Fucking bitch!"

He moaned with growing horror, running a hand through his hair as he weaved through the wreckage to the kitchen. He dragged a bottle of coke from the fridge, half-filling a glass that hadn't been thrown and smashed against the counter. He filled it to the brim with rum, before chugging it down.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, surveying the room with a sour expression.

That little bitch had trashed his apartment. Completely _destroyed_ his apartment. He was barely getting by as it was. How the hell was he supposed to pay for all this?

He was leaning against the counter, second glass half-drunk, when his neighbour knocked on the door, peering in.

"Sorry, I heard shouting and-" the middle-aged man began, before he took in the mess before him. "What the hell happened in here?"

"Party," Zephir lied, shrugging.

"I didn't hear any guests," the man pointed out smugly.

"I didn't have guests. It was only me at the party."

"You didn't get home until five minutes ago. I heard someone crashing around in here at least three minutes before you came up those stairs."

Zephir smiled at him, baring his teeth in a snarl. "Listen, I'm already pissed off, and I'm about to get really drunk. I suggest you close the door, waddle off to your own place and mind your own goddamn business for the rest of the night, okay?"

The man glared, but didn't challenged him. He stalked off, muttering about 'irresponsible' and 'ungrateful' teenagers. Zephir hurled the now-empty glass after him, watching it shatter on the carpet outside his door.

He took a swig from the bottle, staggering off to his bedroom.

(To be continued...)


End file.
